


A Debt Thrice Owed

by nevertrustakobold



Series: William No [1]
Category: The Yogscast
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-10
Updated: 2014-12-10
Packaged: 2018-02-28 23:15:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,255
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2750765
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nevertrustakobold/pseuds/nevertrustakobold
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When the City's presence grows too much to bear, Will takes matters into his own hands. It goes about as well as you might expect.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Debt Thrice Owed

**Author's Note:**

> So a while ago Sparxflame wrote Favours, a work of pure artistic genius, and I liked it. A lot. So much so that I decided to take the idea and run with it. While I was dawdling around with this they released their own sequel, which is wonderful and heartcrushing and just generally superior to this one in every way, but I will not let that stop me from posting my version. Too much time and effort has been poured into it to allow it so sit lonely and unread on my hard drive. 
> 
> A million thanks to -themadhatter- who fearlessly agreed to beta this, and did an exceptional job. Thank you so much, friend. This fic would be a garbled mess without your help. You are a national treasure.

Will’s head is pounding, an insistent rhythm hammering away behind his eyes and at his temples. It carries the throbbing beat of the nightclubs’ music as they open their doors to the late evening air and the queues of people waiting for their chance to drink and dance in such excess that the very thought of either makes the head spin and the stomach lurch; it drags the grating honks of drivers’ horns as the last dregs of post-work traffic work its way out of the city’s system; it is the unforgiving beat of construction, of jackhammers and wrecking balls and all those other monstrous machines that fill the air with noise and dust and snapping nerves, and Will feels their beat just as he feels the cement that they work on and the steel frames they twist, buckling, crumbling under pressure or growing in strength through their savage ministrations.

 

He feels all this and more, trapped and reverberating within his skull, and it’s all he can do not to scream at the pressure of it. He’s never felt anything this bad, not even on that day he avoids thinking about when the city almost claimed him for its own. He thanks the stars that Xephos and Honeydew aren’t home, that they’re away with Lalna at some kind of university event and not here at home fussing over Will and filling the house with noise and energy. He isn’t sure when they’re getting back and doesn’t care; right now, all that matters is that they’re somewhere far away and not bearing witness to his shameful lack of self control.

 

Dragging himself off the bed where he’s been curled up under his blankets in a rather pathetic attempt to block out the city’s insistent presence, he wobbles over to his desk, searching with his hands through the detritus of empty CD cases and scraps of paper with the beginnings of spell ideas scrawled haphazardly across them until he finally finds them, half under the desk, when he almost trips on the cord: a pair of noise-cancelling headphones, gifted to him by his mother for his last Christmas before coming to the city. He carefully extricates them from their hiding place, a feat rendered more difficult by the way the cord has tangled in the wheels of his desk chair, as well as the fact that he’s doing it in the dark, unable to cope with even the tiny flicker of power - and, therefore, magic - that the lit bulb would bring into his room, then returns to collapse blindly back on the bed, pulling them over his ears with trembling hands

 

It works a little, dulling and muffling his immediate surroundings, so that the porch light is no longer demanding his attention with its flickering cries for help over wonky wiring, and the neighbours’ burglar alarm is no longer spilling endless paranoia into his system, and the constant, low-key hum of electricity - from the walls and the overhead wires and the static in the dry winter air - all of it falls blissfully silent. But the City, the capital-C City that is all of these and so much more, is still very much there, too close, pressing at his head and he isn't even sure whether the pressure comes from inside or out, and he wants to cry. In desperation he tangles his fingers in the headphone cord and his mind in their complicated electrical insides and pulls, feeling for the little pocket of silence that is at their core, that potential for quiet and promise of peace, and draws it out like thread off a spool, until he can hold it, feel the metaphysical tangle in his fingers slide together like silk and fall through them them to the floor. It wants to mix together, this thread, to knot and snarl, but he doesn’t let it, keeps it long and straight, not knowing what he’s doing or how, knowing only that he wants silence and he’s going to get it and if the headphones aren’t enough, then he’s going to have to make his own.

 

He casts his mind back to his time spent out in the country, when he was still young and would visit with his grandparents every few weeks while his parents did whatever it was that parents do during those odd weekends - he’d never bothered asking, it hadn’t seemed important, not when there was the prospect of _grandparents_ \- and remembers how his grandfather would sit with him in front of their fireplace, with mugs of hot cocoa and a plate of hand-made biscuits, and carefully coach him in the ancient art of knitting, teaching him the intricacies of casting stitches, of the different patterns, of visualising the image you wanted to create and letting it flow into your needles and out into the world.

 

He’d always insisted that what he did wasn’t magic, but skill, but looking back, Will isn't so sure. That he was skilled was without question, but some of his grandfather’s creations had transcended the realm of practiced art to reach some higher stage, and there was no denying that his sweaters always kept you exactly the right temperature, and matched with anything even when you felt that the colours should, by all rights, clash terribly, and no one ever seemed to outgrow them, even when they were an eight-year-old boy who outgrew all his other clothes in a matter of weeks.

 

Despite his careful tutelage, Will never achieved anywhere near his level of mastery, and as he’d grown older he’d picked up his needles less and less - and thinking about it, he realises with a pang that he has no idea where they are now, whether he’d even brought them with him when he came here - but he learned enough, and drawing on that knowledge, on the memory of warm days in front of the fire as storms raged outside and snow piled up against roofs and windows, and the silence that comes from being snowed in, he takes his thread of silence magic from the headphones and twists it, weaving it against itself until he's holding in his hands a flat sheet of it, light and unexpectedly soft, like a blanket of dead air.

 

He hadn’t expected for it to work, and for a moment he almost forgets the city, so caught up in the satisfaction and amazement of creating something so strange. He sits up to better examine the material in his hands as he absentmindedly reaches a sliver of awareness out to turn on the light. The City takes that opportunity to remind him of its presence, and the slamming of it back against his thoughts is so violent that it folds him in half as his forehead collides painfully with his knees, breath catching in his throat as he tastes exhaust and dust on his tongue. Moving on instinct, he throws the blanket over his head it as it spreads around him like a cape, cocooning him in its velvety folds and at last, the noise falls away. The change is sudden and a little disorienting, the abrupt absence of City almost jarring, but right now Will is so happy he doesn't care if it leaves him dizzy - besides, it’s probably just the result of hitting his head. He takes a deep breath and revels in the way he no longer tastes the city as he does it, stretches back out against the sheets and laughs as his body is, for the first time in a long time, entirely his own; no rats for his nose, no pigeons for his eyes, no streets and avenues where his limbs should be and his voice entirely devoid of truck horns and car alarms.

 

He isn't sure how long he lies there, wrapped in his silence and giddy at the lightness of it, still just ever so slightly dizzy. Without the city pressing against him, he feels like he could just float away, and he doesn’t think he’d mind it much if he did. Eventually though, he hears something through the silence. It starts as bursts of static through the headphones still firmly planted over his ears, but it’s so soft and unintrusive that he doesn’t think to shut it out.

 

It floats in and out of hearing range, never quite the same, and he finds himself focusing on it, listening, trying to make out what it is. It grows a little louder, slowly, gradually building in volume, and he thinks that every now and then he hears words; just snatches of a phrase, little tiny pieces of language, interspersed with what sounds like laughter, or rather, something that sounds like regular static, but _feels_ like laughter. He listens further, drowsy and comfortable, as the song of the wire plays around him. _We be fire_ His headphones aren’t plugged into anything, but then, with them, they don’t have to be. _We be life_ He recognizes them now, and the song they sing. _We be light!_ He hums along for a while, sings it back, sings it with them. _We dance electric flame_  They sing to him as he lies there, enjoying their song and the peace it brings him as the the blue electric angels fill his headphones with their voices. _We rumble underground wind_ Eventually they get bored, as is their way, and move on, further into the wire, further across the world. _We dance heaven!_

 

He feels a pang of loss as their voices dim in his ears, and without really thinking he follows them. Lets his thoughts fall through the wire until they’re inside it, until _he_ is inside it; the very essence that is William Strife within the wire, chasing the angels and the angels rush back to him exclaiming their joy, whispered voices rising in a crescendo, overlapping and harmonizing in his ear. _Come be we and be free!_ They surround him, enveloping him in their love, their delight, and he goes with them, flying down the wire, and for a moment it’s bliss.

 

Then the full extent of what he’s just done hits him like a train, and he’s terrified. He tries to turn around, to go back, and realises that he doesn’t know how, doesn’t even know where his body is. He tries to reach out, as the angels stream past him in streaks of vibrant blue, to sense where he is in the city - to check whether he’s even still _in_ the city - but he can’t, can’t feel the city at all through the shroud of silence that’s still wrapped around his physical body, invisible and imperceptible to everyone but himself.

 

He tries to ground himself on something, to reach out and hold on and _stop_ , to do _anything_ , and can’t. It hits him that maybe this time he’s finally messed up so badly that there won’t be a way to fix this; done something so colossally stupid that there might not be a way back out. Blind panic is setting in and he knows he should stay calm, think this through logically, but it’s hard when he feels his awareness spreading thinner and thinner, spanning the world, flying through the wires at an impossible speed, through the wireless signals and the phone lines, faster and faster as snatches of other people’s conversations burst into his thoughts, eclipsing them for seconds at a time as he struggles to at least not lose track of who _he_ is amid the barrage of information.

 

He just has to… _Hi, Dana? Yeah, yeah, it’s me, listen-_

He just has…   _да, я вас слушаю, я - ты! Что тебе надо, тварь?_

He just…  _Mathieu c’est toi? Non, non, c’est tout correct, c’est que j’ai un service à te demander, rien de grand-_

He… _So, two dozen mandrakes and a bushel of mint, any-_

 

He knows that voice. He can’t remember where from, only knows that that voice means safety, means protection, means _-Hey babe, just calling to say I’m gonna be late toni-_ He wrenches his thoughts away from the interrupting conversations, searching frantically for the voice, praying that they haven’t already hung up, haven’t _-ave a very nice sale on tea right now, if you’re interested-_ There! He finds it again and takes hold of it, pulls himself towards it and doesn't stop until he knows he’s there in the receiver as the conversation _-we have all sorts here in the shop; herbal teas, white tea, green tea, tea with-_ If he could just remember where he’s heard the voice he might be able to _-I’d recommend the Heat Haze myself, with the weather being what it is, but-_ It’s on the tip of his tongue, spinning tantalizingly just out of reach, and he all but growls as the momentary lapse of focus sends him careening halfway across the world. _-J’ai rien fait, je ne comprend pas pourquoi-_ He scrambles back, searching again for the voice, his voice, amid the interference.   _-‘s a good point! I’d say Blizzard Blend would be your best bet then, if-_  He just needs to find some way to break in, break through, and make the voice hear him.The angels, all but forgotten amid all the confusion, swarm back around him.

 

_Just use your voice Use our voice You be free, you be we!_

_But not here!_

_Not here!_

_He chases us away Doesn't like our song!_

_We don’t bother him_

_Don’t talk to him_

_Chased us away from you_

_Not for you, he says, we heard it! What did he mean? Who is not for who?_

_But you came anyways! Heard the song_

_We be fire, we be life, we be light!_

_And now you be we!_

_Sing!_

_Sing with us!_

 

It’s tempting to fall back in, let the current of it sweep him away, sing their songs and dance their endless dances, but Will resists. Something the angels said has caught his attention, a much-needed distraction to focus on that isn't their siren call. _-That’s true, but that’s a problem with most teas, really, and-_

 

The voice had apparently chased the angels away from Will at some point, but that doesn't sit quite right with him. It feels backwards; how could he have chased the angels away, when he’d been warning Will away from them, murmuring in his ear as- He remembers with a sudden clarity so abrupt that if he’s still been in his body it would probably have left him gasping, and his mind swims with

 

_Feel of warm blanket beneath his hands taste of honey and lemon on his tongue smell of plants and potting soil - Warm rich air filling his lungs, soothing as he breathes in deep - Weak winter sunlight warm on his skin through thick greenhouse glass - Hands, strong, powerful hands gripping his shoulders, anchoring him, keeping him grounded -  A voice, deep, friendly, encouraging him to open up o the city - And a promise._

“I won’t get you lost.”

 

Yes, he remembers the voice now, marvels that he could ever have forgotten it. Kirin Dave. He can help Will, just like he’d done before. He has to. _Alright, so your order should be ready for pick up tomorrow, feel free to come pick it up at any time! And thanks again for shopping at-_

 

“Kirin!” He isn’t entirely sure how he manages to scream it, voice crackling with static at his desperation, but somehow he does. All he knows is that he has to get hold of Kirin now, before he hangs up and Will loses his tenuous anchor to this conversation and to Kirin himself.

 

“It’s me! Kirin, it’s-” He stops in horror and realises that he can't remember his name, that he’s lost it somewhere amid the passing lives in the wires, but Kirin cuts in and it’s ok, he doesn’t need to remember.

 

“William? Is that you? What on _earth_ have you gotten yourself into?” He sounds bemused more than anything else and the calm of his voice is like balm to Will’s snapping nerves.

 

“I’m… Well, it’s… I need your help. Badly. Please.”

 

“Help? It’s no small thing to request my help. It’s best to be certain of what you’re asking. Are you certain?” Kirin’s tone has changed in an instant, from amused to solemn in the blink of an eye, and his words sound well-worn, like a ritual, or a trap.

 

“I…” Will feels a sudden rush of apprehension, but fights it down. He has no one else to turn to; it was a miracle that he’d found Kirin in the first place amid the swirling maelstrom of interfering signals and information he’d been thrown into. If he let him go, if he didn’t ask him for help… This was his only chance.

 

“Yes. I’m certain. I need your help, Kirin. You’re my only hope.”

 

“Very well. What is it you need?”

 

“It’s kind of a long story, but I guess the short version is that I’m, uh... I’m lost.”

 

“Lost? Are you not in the city? There’s little I can do for you if you've left my borders.”

 

“Well, that’s the thing. I’m not really anywhere right now. Or more like everywhere? I don’t know. I mean, my body’s probably still in my room, I guess, but-”

 

“Your body.” Kirin doesn't phrase it like a question, and his voice is suddenly tight, and full like summer air before a thunderstorm, and Will is suddenly very, very nervous, without quite knowing why.

 

“I’m not -” He goes to say ‘dead’ and stops, realising that he has no idea whether that’s true. He’s avoided thinking about it until now, but saying the words brings home just how much he has _no clue_ what’s actually going on.

 

“I’m… _probably_ not dead?” He can barely make himself say it, some small childish part of him convinced that if he doesn't think about it, doesn't give it voice, it will stay in the realm of the unreal, but Kirin needs to know what’s happening so he can help him, and keeping something this important from him would be extremely counterproductive. “That’s part of the problem, really. I can’t find my way back.”

 

“Back from _where_?” Kirin’s voice has reached a level of forced calm layered over barely-suppressed exasperation only reachable by those who are already either massaging their temples or holding the bridge of their nose, the kind of voice that tells you they’re one eye-twitch away from snapping someone’s neck, and Will feels a momentary flicker of guilt for bothering him, for barging into his day and taking it over with his petty problems. He obviously had much more important things to do than fix his dumb fuck-ups, and he resolves to make it up to him later. Somehow. He’ll think of something.

 

“Well. It went sort of like this. See, the city was being too loud, right, and don't ask me why tonight specifically, because I have no idea, but it was being super obnoxious, and I couldn’t get it out of my head. I tried headphones, but they didn't help, and then I did something, and it just-”

 

“Did ‘something’? Care to elaborate on this ‘something’? Your somethings are rarely unimportant.”

 

“Just- Just something, I don’t know. It was weird. I didn't even really think about it, but my head was hurting and I just wanted it to be _quiet_ , and when the headphone thing didn't work I just sort of. Reached inside and… pulled the silence out? I’m not sure how to describe it. I made it into a… blanket. Thing. Of sorts.” It sounds really dumb when he puts it into words: William Strife makes himself a blanket to hide from the mean scary city. As if being unable to adapt to the city wasn't bad enough. He chokes on the words a bit at the childishness of it, but if Kirin notices he doesn't say anything, just waits for him to carry on his story. “And then I just pulled it up over my head. It felt like the right thing to do, so I did it, and… It was _beautiful_. The whole city just. Fell away. It was so quiet. Even in the country it was never that quiet.”

 

“You… You _shut out_ the city?" There's a second of dead air, and despite the situation Will feels a momentary thrill at having witnessed a speechless Kirin. "Do you have _any_ idea how-? No, no, of course you don’t! Why would you? Damn it, William, do you ever think these things through? He cut himself off from the city. Unbelievable!” Will hears air moving against the receive, feels Kirin put the phone on speaker, hears the sharp _clack_ as he places it down - none to gently - on something wooden. The counter, maybe? He can’t tell.

 

“Where did you say your body is?” Kirin’s voice is distant and tinny, mixed with the dry whisper of wool on fabric that gives the impression of a coat being hastily pulled on. “You’re going to tell me the rest of this on the way, but I need to know where you are.“

 

The phone gets picked up again, Kirin’s beard scratching against the receiver as it’s pressed back to his ear, and the sounds of the street drift faintly on the wind as the shop door opens with a cheerful jingle of the bell.

 

“Will?” prompts Kirin, but he’s distracted by the noise of the traffic, attention diverted by the novelty of hearing the city as simple noise without the echoing beat of it thrumming in his chest. Is this what it’s like to go outside for other people? It feels so lonely, but the possibility of crossing a threshold without having to worry about drowning in the grand sweeping pattern of it is also seductively appealing. Even without the mental link the city calls to him, and it’s with some difficulty that he refocuses back on the conversation. “Where did you leave your body?”

 

“At home. I was in my room. Am in my room. Whatever.”

 

“Xephos’s house? You’re in you uncle’s house right now?” Oddly enough he sounds almost pleased at the prospect, and Will can practically _hear_ the smile growing on his face, though he can’t for the life of him figure out why this piece of information would be so important. There's a kind of hunger in his voice that freaks him out a bit, but he doesn't get the chance to ask before Kirin steers the conversation back on track.

 

“So you separated yourself from the city in a move so colossally reckless it can be seen from space. What happened next?”

 

“Nothing for a while; I was just enjoying the silence. Eventually I heard static though, and then through the static - or maybe _in_ it? I don't know. Eventually I heard them singing. The blue electric angels. They were talking to me, but then they they started to leave, and I just. I followed them. It was an accident, mostly; I wasn't really thinking, and I didn't mean to - or, I don’t know, maybe I did, but I wouldn't have done it if I’d known I actually _could_! But I didn't know, so I just sort of slipped in after them, and for a moment it was…” He fumbles for some way to describe it, hunts for some combination of words that can possibly convey the sheer vastness of the experience, and fails. He settles on “Everything. _More_ than everything. They promise freedom and they mean it, and it was the most _beautiful_ thing…” He runs out of words again, and realises to his horror that he’s rambling. “Anyways. Then I, uh, realized what I’d done, and that maybe I should. You know. Not have. But I couldn’t find my way back again, and I couldn’t even reach out to the city to situate myself, because my body was still under the blanket, and it was all just. Too much. Too much information, too much space. Not enough Strife. I was just getting pinged around the world through all these people’s conversations, but then I heard you talking, and I heard your voice, and I couldn't remember how I knew it, but I knew I did, and that finding it might help me get home. So I went to it, and I tried to remember why I knew your voice, and how it might be helpful, and then I did! And, well. You know the rest, I guess.”

 

Kirin had been worryingly silent as Will finished speaking, and he’s starting to wonder whether he’s somehow accidentally left the phone without noticing it, when Kirin finally speaks again.

 

“I’m here. You’re going to have to give me permission to enter.”

 

“Permission granted. There’s a spare key under the flowerpot by the door.”

 

More silence, then the faint click of the key in the lock, and the dull rasping scrape of the door sticking, and being promptly unstuck by Kirin’s shoulder.

 

“Where to now?”

 

“Up. I’ve got the attic.”

 

“Cozy,” is Kirin’s only reply as he weaves his way through the general clutter that follows Lalna and Honeydew like an aura, regardless of the many lectures Xephos subjects them to about the sanctity of home, and all the different ways that cleanliness is next to godliness, and that ‘there are _places_ for your tools, goddamn it!’

 

The creaks of the floorboards lets him know when Kirin reaches the upstairs landing, passes the master bedroom, starts up the smaller staircase tucked away at the back of the house that leads to the attic. The silence is unnerving, and he wishes Kirin would just say something, but doesn't want to break it himself. He’s moving so slowly through the house and Will doesn't understand how he can stand it; if it were him he’d be sprinting up the stairs two at a time, but Kirin’s pace is measured, slow, as though he’s got all the time in the world and maybe he does, but Will doesn't, and he feels that now more acutely than ever before. Finally, _finally_ , after another minute of unnecessary - in Will’s opinion - stalling, there’s a dull click as his door is swung open, and a quiet scrape as it drags against the rug on his floor.

 

"Will? You still there?" Kirin’s voice is hushed - perfect library voice, notes the part of Will’s brain that has decided that the best way to deal with his present situation is to pretend it isn't happening - but after so much nothing and anticipation it still startles him so badly that he almost loses his hold on the phone again. “William.”

 

“I’m here! Right here! What’s- What's the problem?”

 

“You mean besides the fact that you've locked yourself out of your body? Just tell me again how you shut out the city; I’m going to remove your magic and I don’t want to make anything worse.”

 

Will stutters out another explanation, tripping over his words as he struggles to frame all the disparate thoughts and and instinctive reactions and gut feelings that had been going through his mind into concrete, understandable English.

 

“Alright, I think I understand. Just hold on Will, we’ll get you home.”

 

Will notices the difference immediately as Kirin carefully peels back his magic. He does it slowly, doesn't rip it off like Will half expected him to, but it’s still unpleasantly harsh as the sudden pull of the city starts back up, coming at him from all directions and spinning him around like a compass dropped into a tub of magnets. Added to that is the stronger, steadier pull of his body; it’s possibly the only thing that’s letting him keep his bearings right now, but the overall feeling is still incredibly disorienting, compounding on the already chaotic flow of _life_ that’s surrounded him throughout his - hopefully, nearly finished - stint as a creature of the wire. Reaching out carefully, he feels around until he locates his headphones’ muted pulse and tries to slip back into them, but something holds him back.

 

_You be we! Stay! Stay with us_

_Stay us!_

_Don’t leave!_

_Be us!_

_Angel in the wire A shadow on the wall_

_Ours now You came to us_

_Called for us_

_We answered We came_

_We came for you_

_Stay!_

_Stay!_

_Stay!_

 

Will had all but forgotten about the angels, but clearly they had not forgotten about him. They swarm back to him, blurring his link to his body and filling his awareness with static and bright electric blue, as their voices call out to him and twine around what little is left of Will Strife. He tries to pull away, to block out their whispering chorus, but after everything else he just doesn't have the strength. They’re all around him and he hasn't got anywhere to go and he’s drowning in it all, and he feels them pulling him slowly away, back towards the steady rush Wire, and Kirin’s voice comes to his rescue once more.

 

 _Let him go._  He says. _He is mine._  He says. _You cannot_ _have him. He isn't for you. Leave now, before I make you._

 

And somehow his words have an effect. As soon as he starts to speak the angels draw back, and by the time he stops they've disappeared, back into the wires and waves that are their home.

 

More worn out than ever, Will gratefully slips out of Kirin’s phone, into the headphones, and then down, flowing through them until just like that, he’s back in his own body. He really wishes that just once, he could get what he wants without instantly wishing he hadn't gotten it.

 

Everything is cold. It’s all he can feel at first; frigid numbness in his limbs and a terrifying chill in his chest, and a complete absence of sensation from the very outer reaches of himself. Next comes the general discomfort of cramped muscles locked into one position for too long, all seized up and stiff, fighting the numbness for the top place on the reasons-he-should-have-just-stayed-in-the-goddamn-wires list. He gasps at the unexpected pain of it and that, too, brings pain, filling his throat with fire and sending him coughing as his lungs try to accommodate the sudden influx of air after so long spent taking only the very shallowest of breaths. He can’t move and breathing is a battle and the spasming jerks of his coughs are coiling his muscles tighter and tighter and it’s too much, he just wants out again but he’s lost, again, _inside_ his body this time, and for the third time it’s Kirin who saves him.

 

His hands are suddenly warm against his back and petting through his hair, and he’s murmuring something that Will still too out of it to catch. A gentle hand removes his headphones while the other keeps rubbing soothing circles between his shoulder blades until he finally stops coughing. Both hands disappear for a brief moment and he panics again, but they’re back before he can do anything more than tense up, and they bring a blanket with them, soft and deliciously warm.

 

That done, Kirin turns his attention to Will’s own hands, reaching down to where they’re clenched against his chest and uncurling them, rubbing them between his own hands until warmth slowly starts to creep into them, massaging feeling into each finger with a care previously reserved, in Will's experience, for easily-bruising plants.

 

It feels so good, to just lie there and be cared for and know that he’s safe, and he has to push his face into his pillow before he does something stupid like burst into tears. And if a few manage to make it out anyways, well, no one can prove anything.

 

“Just what are we going to do with you, William?”  Something in his tone freezes Will. His throat is still raw from the coughing, but he forces himself to speak, suddenly filled with a deep unease.

 

“What-”  He coughs, clears his throat, tries again. “What do you mean? Why would you do anything with me?” He doesn't want to open his eyes but feels he has to, squinting at Kirin’s face backlit by the desklamp somewhere behind his head. He should have noticed that it had been turned on. Why hadn't he noticed? He doesn't like the implications of his not being aware enough to realise it.

 

“You need to be taught how to use that magic of yours before you either kill yourself or bring down the town. I can do that, if you let me. Given what happened today - and don’t think I’m going to just forget about it - I’d say the sooner the better. It turned out alright, this time, but it might not the next. I might not be around to help, or you’ll be unable to reach me, or it won’t matter because there won’t be anything left of you to save. No one’s teaching you how to manage your powers properly, and distancing yourself from them or shutting them out will do you more harm than good. You’re left working off instinct and rules for other streams of magic that apply to your own about as often as they fail spectacularly, and that’s no way to grow. It’s a miracle you haven’t accidentally merged yourself with a bus or something, the way you carry on.”

 

Will wants to defend himself; Kirin’s not being fair, he knows a _lot_ of stuff already, and he feels like there’s a buried barb against Xephos somewhere in there, but he’s so worn out, and the bed is so comfortable, and thanks to Kirin’s attention he’s finally warm, and talking feels like such an impossible, unnecessary effort. He tries for a stern expression instead, frowning at Kirin and hoping that he can read his thoughts on the matter on his face, but it’s a long shot; his eyes are sliding closed and there’s not a force in this world that can keep them open any longer, and now that, after everything, he’s finally here, back at home and back in his own body, his stern expression probably more closely resembles one of almost-total bliss. Regardless, he still feels better for having tried.

 

Kirin just laughs softly and kisses Will’s knuckles, then returns to gently running his fingers through Will’s hair and it feels so nice it should be criminal, but he can’t quite bring himself to care. It reminds him of a time when he’d accidentally let his mind drift into that of an infant pigeon, high in its nest in the heating vents of an office building. Its parent had been preening it at the time, sifting through its feathers with their beak in much the same way as Kirin’s fingers are doing now, and he remembers most strongly the devotion the baby pigeon had felt for the parent, and the complete confidence in them to keep it safe, and well, and cared for. He thinks that somewhere in his soul, a baby pigeon might just have adopted Kirin, and perhaps that thought make him more apprehensive, and less pleasantly content, but Kirin’s hands are almost hypnotic in his hair, and he’s humming something that sounds like a lullaby, and there's a taste like lemon and honey on his tongue, and really it's a miracle he hasn't already fallen asleep. As usual, Kirin seems to read his mind.

 

“Sleep, William. You need it. The world will still be here when you wake up. You’re safe now. Just sleep.”

 

Will wants nothing more, sinking deeper into the pillow and drawing the blanket higher over his shoulders, but there’s something that he needs to do before he does. With an enormous effort of will, he peels back an eyelid, focusing back on Kirin.

 

“Wait. There’s... one more thing…” A yawn cuts in and he tries to speak through it, but his words come out a garbled mess.

 

“What’s this? Do you need something else? Should I get you another blanket?” Kirin’s tone is joking, but nonetheless, Will feels like he’s dangerously close to overstepping somehow.

 

“No! No, I just... Thank you. For everything. You probably saved my life, and… Yeah. I just wanted to say thanks.”

 

“Well,” Kirin smiles, slow and wide and radiant. “You’re _very_ welcome. But you should really sleep now. If you’re feeling up to it when you wake up, come and find me. I think there’s a lot for us to talk about.”

 

And with that he’s gone, and Will is left with the lingering heat of his fingers in his own and the faint scent of honey and wildflowers in the air, reassuring and familiar, and he lets it lull him, finally, into proper deep sleep. There’s feeling in his heart that something isn’t quite right, but it’s so quiet and easy to ignore and really, he can just deal with it tomorrow. He'll go out and find Kirin too, see what he wants. He owes it to him, and after everything he's done for him, it's really the least he can do.

 

For the first time since coming to the city he sleeps the whole night through, and his dreams are fast and wild, full of deer that offer him apples and tea, and glowing green fireflies the size of his hand that light up the night with their alien shine, and foxes with blood red eyes that howl and chase him through a dark and looming wood and as he runs, the air against his face is like honey, and lemon, and wildflowers.

 


End file.
